


Drabbles & Flashfics

by mad_martha



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, The Sentinel
Genre: AU, Angst, Crossover, Drama, Gen, Humour, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-03
Updated: 2011-09-03
Packaged: 2017-10-23 09:47:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 3,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/248975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mad_martha/pseuds/mad_martha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of drabbles and flashfics that were originally posted separately elsewhere.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Keepsake

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MadamBeetroot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadamBeetroot/gifts), [Shocolate](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Shocolate).



It was the sparkle, like Christmas lights, that caught his eye. But it took another five minutes before he could unearth the culprit from the file it had been stowed in for safekeeping.

Big, crudely drawn stars flashed on and off in varied colours. When he opened the card, the words – in a messy teenaged hand – glittered too.

 _Good luck, Professor Sandburg._

Blair remembered the artist - sullen, complex, unpredictable. Sixteen.

"Good luck, Harry Potter," he murmured.

Then he drew his wand and tapped the paper.

 _"Finite incantatum."_

It wouldn't do to let Jim see this relic of his past.


	2. Guidance

The room was very quiet and peaceful after the frenetic noise of the party. But Harry still wasn't sure.

"Do you think we should?" he asked Ron.

"Why not?" Ron replied, and his tone was almost gentle. "It's your party; you can leave if you want."

"No, I mean - this," Harry said, gesturing towards the bed. And then he felt foolish, because he knew this was what he'd wanted for the longest time.

But Ron seemed to understand. "It's okay. We won't do anything you don't want to do."

His hands were very gentle when they touched Harry; almost as gentle as his lips when they kissed.

"You don't understand," Harry whispered, when they parted briefly. "That's just it - I want to do _everything_. With you. But I - I don't know how - I never have before - "

"It's okay," Ron said again. "I'll show you. I'll show you anything you want."

And so he did.


	3. A Cure For What Ails You

"… and my gran always swears by eels' eyes for it …"

Ron stopped in the doorway of the dormitory. Seamus, Dean and Neville were all standing at the side of Harry's bed, peering with varying degrees of curiosity and/or sympathy at the prone and rather hunched figure of Harry himself. He was lying on his side with his back to the door, but somehow he still managed to convey utter misery with the set of his back and shoulders.

"Eels' eyes!" Seamus said scornfully. "Whoever heard of anyone using _eels' eyes_ for it?"

"'S what my gran says," Neville said, flushing. "You hold a dessertspoonful in each hand and – "

"Nah, he just needs a painkilling potion and a hot shower," Dean interrupted. "The steam'll soon get rid of it, Harry."

Harry seemed to flinch at this hearty advice.

"Well, my Mam always makes us stick a roasted onion in it," Seamus asserted loudly. "Works a treat."

Dean looked torn between laughter and horror. "Thanks, but I think I'd rather try the eels' eyes!" he said, with a snort. "What kind of idiot sticks a _roasted onion_ in there? What good is that supposed to do?"

"What are you morons talking about?" Ron demanded. He stalked up to the side of the bed and the others quickly backed away. "Roasted onions, hot showers and eels' eyes? Who's got the clap?"

"'S not the clap," Harry mumbled. His eyes were scrunched shut and he had one hand pressed between his right ear and the pillow.

Ron bent over him, concerned. "What's the problem, mate? Is it your scar?"

"Earache," Neville supplied helpfully.

" _Killer_ earache," Harry corrected, one eye opening a crack.

"You don't die of earache," Seamus said irritably. "And if you'd just put an onion – "

"Look, take your sodding onion and stick it up your arse," Ron interrupted, straightening up and glaring at the Irish boy. "All of you clear off, okay? You're not helping."

"Cheers, Ron," Dean said, disgruntled, but he grabbed Seamus's arm and dragged him away before he could offer any response to Ron's suggestion.

When Neville seemed inclined to linger – possibly to make more offers of eels' eyes – Ron made shooing motions.

"You too! Go on. Eels' eyes, I ask you!"

"Hurts," Harry said miserably to his friend, when Neville had left.

"Yeah, mate, I know. You hang on just a second."

Ron disappeared into the bathroom attached to their dormitory and re-emerged a moment or two later with a soft, fluffy towel. He folded it up and cast a Warming Charm on it.

"Budge over a bit," he said when he returned to Harry's bedside. Harry scooted over the covers and Ron kicked his shoes off and climbed up beside him. He settled himself against the pillows, then grabbed Harry gently, taking his hand away from his ear. He pressed the warmed towel to it then steered Harry around slightly so that he was resting against Ron's chest instead, with the towel still in place.

Harry sighed with relief.

"That better?" Ron asked him solicitously.

" _Much_ better," Harry said contentedly.

"Thought so." Ron snorted softly. "Roasted onions! What a pillock."


	4. Exchange

"Anyone home?"

Snape's eyes closed briefly at the sound of the all too well-remembered voice. Him. Dear God.

"If I said no, would you go away?"

There was a low chuckle. "Hey, I'm flattered - you remember me! Or did someone warn you I was on my way here?"

"There isn't a member of staff who _doesn't_ remember you, Mr. Sandburg," Snape replied, ignoring the question. "The entire foreign exchange programme was abandoned the moment you vacated our halls." He turned to face the young man, and raised a brow at the long curly hair and ethnic-style clothing. "I'd suggest a robe, but something tells me not even that would ever make you fit in here."

"Man, you're as sweet as ever," Blair noted. "What's with you English guys and the uniforms, anyway? You'll never get the kids in one of our high schools to conform with a dress code, let alone the exchange teachers." He pretended to shiver. "Too Orwellian. Or should that be 'Muggle'? That's another thing you'd never get away with back home. Way too racist. Step into the twentieth century, guys, before it's too late."

"Do owl me when you've ceased your infernal blithering," Snape said dryly. "In the meantime, you may leave the samples on my desk."

"What samples?"

Snape should have known better but, caught by surprise, he whipped around. Blair grinned.

"Gotcha!"

"Sandburg - "

"That's more like it. You even sound like someone I know." Blair began to empty the contents of his pockets onto the Potion Master's desk. "I'd love to get you and Jim into a room together. Photo opportunity of a lifetime." For a moment he sounded wistful, then he shook his head, making the springy brown curls bounce. "Never happen. Poor guy has too much on his plate already - this place would finish him off."

"Let me guess," Snape said sardonically. "One of those - what was the phrase? buff GI Joe types? - you were forever eulogising?"

"Close." Blair shot him a look of irrepressible mischief. "You preferred burly Quidditch players, didn't you? Jim would make a great Beater."

"Indeed." The word was practically dripped ice.

"Although with vision like his, he wouldn't be bad as a Seeker either. Give the Potter kid a run for his money."

"I would pay Galleons to see that. Unfortunately, the Mighty Potter has moved on to pastures new since your last visit."

"Yeah? I wondered what he'd end up doing. Say what you like about him, Severus - he was pretty traumatised after he did for ol' Snaky. Anyone would be. You guys expected too much of him."

"Fate expected too much of him," Snape corrected. "We merely tried our poor best to prepare him - as far as he would allow us, and I can assure you that wasn't very far at all. If he suffered after the fact, it was only to be expected. He was exceptionally fortunate even to survive, but the little snot never appreciated that fact, of course."

Blair shot him a sour look. "Jeez, give the poor kid a break, will you? Any sixteen year old who has to face up to a life or death fight with a wizard like Voldemort has a right to be a little flaky. He lost his family. He lost a shitload of his friends. He nearly died! And all you can say is that he didn't show enough gratitude? Get over yourself, Snape."

He finished laying the samples out on the desk. "There. Don't go bitching at me if they aren't the quality you were hoping for. I don't have many opportunities to go south these days - funding's too tight and I have other commitments."

"Too kind!" Snape sneered, but Blair noted that he was quick to examine the bundles.

"So what did the Potter kid end up doing?" he asked after a minute or two.

"Something deplorably Muggle, under the aegis of the werewolf," Snape replied indifferently. "I heard he even tried to give his wand back to Ollivander, but the old _kobold_ persuaded him to keep it for his own protection. I believe even the _Prophet_ 's reporters have given up trying to find the brat these days."

"Good for him," Blair murmured sympathetically.


	5. How It Ends

Fireworks rained down over Diagon Alley, briefly lighting up the burned out shell of The Leaky Cauldron, the cracked marble pillars supporting the scorched front of Gringotts, the pile of rubble that had once been Flourish and Blotts. Sounds of celebration drifted out of some of the remaining buildings, although there wasn't a single shop-front that was undamaged.

All except Ollivanders, that is. Tucked in a little corner between two bigger buildings, it had somehow escaped with nothing more than a faint coating of soot across the brickwork. The single wand that was its only advertisement still rested on a faded purple cushion in the window.

Oblivious to the late hour or the sounds of revelry going on, the shop door opened seemingly of its own accord, triggering the tinkling bell, and closed again with a quiet _clunk_. There was a soft whisper of sound and Harry Potter emerged from under his father's Invisibility Cloak.

"Good evening, Mr. Potter," a soft voice said and Mr. Ollivander appeared in front of him, just as he had so many years ago when Harry had entered his shop for the first time. He studied the young man through those same wide pale eyes for a moment and nodded just once.

"Yes …" he said thoughtfully, "yes, Mr. Potter. I've been expecting you … ever since I heard the news about He Who Must Not Be Named."

Harry nodded too.

"I thought you might be," he said, and his voice was still rough from the smoke of the final battle … or something. He rummaged inside his Muggle-style jacket and pulled out a rather battered old wand box, which he held out to the elderly wand-maker.

Ollivander accepted it with the care that was due to a work of art and removed the lid. Inside lay a slender, highly polished length of wood that he recognised only too well.

"Holly and phoenix feather," he said meditatively. "Eleven inches, nice and supple. I never forget a wand."

"I've come to give it back," Harry said simply, and there was a dozen lifetimes of pain in his green eyes. "I won't be needing it anymore."


	6. Jealousy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The hero and anti-hero have a little chat.

"Who would have thought we would end up here?" Draco mused. "I didn't - did you?"

"Not really," Harry said dryly.

"Not when we first met, certainly."

"We were eleven then, Malfoy. Do you even remember being eleven? We hadn't even had a chance to start developing spots then."

"I never had spots. _You_ had spots."

Harry didn't dignify this with an answer. Draco smiled.

"The Weasel had spots," he said slyly.

"You leave Ron out of this," Harry told him.

"I always hated him," Draco remarked.

"I think you still do."

Draco frowned. "Don't be stupid. What would be the point?"

"I think you were jealous," Harry said softly.

That stung, but he hid it. "Malfoys don't need to be jealous, Potter. We have money and power, we can buy anything we want - other people are jealous of us."

"Money and power can't buy everything," Harry replied. "I'd have thought you'd have learned that by now. It certainly can't buy me."

"And yet, here we are."

Harry snorted, amused. "You think this is how I am when I'm bought - !"

"I do own you," Draco pointed out, and at this Harry laughed out loud.

"Dream on, Malfoy!"

Draco swallowed his annoyance. "You'll learn," he told Harry confidently.

"You keep telling yourself that," Harry told him, amused.

Draco stood up abruptly. "Until tomorrow, Potter."

Harry smiled at him, looking far more amused than any man who was standing naked behind the bars of a bare stone cell had a right to.

"Until tomorrow, Malfoy. I'm not going anywhere."

Draco was nearly at the door when Harry's final word brought him up short.

" - Yet."


	7. Muse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean has a muse …

Dean has recently switched from pastels to watercolour pencils, because his favourite subject, he realises, isn't smooth and imprecise around the edges, but rather firm and definite strokes of clarity washed over with brilliant colour.

His subject stands out even when the sunlight catches his hair and turns it to fire; he's long, smooth lines and solid definition even when at rest, when stretched across his bed with one foot kicking in the air or sprawled in a chair with a book propped on his knee and the end of a quill brushing absent-mindedly across his lips –

"What are you doing?"

Dean smiles, but doesn't jump; he's been caught out before and the practice has made him adept at remaining deceptively casual.

"Just drawing. You know, like I do."

Ron smiles at him then, a bemused expression that makes a well-hidden quiver of happy laughter leap in Dean's chest. _Bemused_ – a good word, for Ron is his muse but will never know it. Knowing would take away the naturalness of pose and the unconscious grace of his body.

And yet _he doesn't know_ , and that's a bittersweet feeling that makes his puzzled quirk of the lips twice as precious to Dean, as he lets his pencils caress the curves he knows his fingers might never touch.


	8. Recycled

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ron finds some of Harry's habits more endearing than others.

Ron likes to think that he's a pretty frugal sort of bloke, but next to him Harry makes it look like an art form.

Bags from shops are carefully set aside for re-using or for lining rubbish bins. There is a box of pre-printed sticky labels in the writing desk for sealing up and addressing re-used envelopes. Old newspapers are used to make firelighters or little paper pots to grow seedlings in. There's an old cauldron with a broken handle next to the fireplace, to keep bits of firewood in and there's a mug without a handle on the mantelpiece to hold their Floo powder.

Ron has no objection to any of these things. But there is one that drives him nuts – quite irrationally – and that's the way Harry saves old wrapping paper and ribbons for re-use. This is taking it too far, Ron thinks. Wrapping paper is made to be ripped and torn off the parcel, not carefully picked undone and smoothed flat (or worse, _ironed_ ). It's an insult to the gift inside to lavish such attention on the wrapping paper.

As for the ribbons ….

"I was saving those for Christmas," Harry protests, "or someone's birthday – "

"Happy birthday to me," Ron says, very satisfied, as he secures Harry's wrists to the bedposts with the ribbons.

No reason why one shouldn't recycle things, after all.


	9. Suck Me, Baby!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ron tells Harry's fortune … well, actually, no, he doesn't.

Ron knelt and took Harry's foot in his hands.

"Do you remember old Trelawney telling us that you can tell someone's future from the lines on the skin of his feet?" he joked as he gently began to massage the toes.

"I think that was palm-reading actually," Harry noted, and his breath hitched as Ron's thumbs moved to the ball of his foot. "But that's okay, just - just don't stop doing that."

"Kinky sod," Ron told him. His blue eyes were alight with amusement. "You'll be asking me to suck it next."

"I - I think toe-sucking _would_ be kinky. Maybe even - oh! - pervy ...."

"Who said I was talking about your toe?" Ron asked innocently.


	10. Theremin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ron and Arthur make music together.

The kit is Hermione's idea, based on her knowledge of Arthur's hobbies and his fondness for unusual forms of music (she heard all about the Great Water Organ Fiasco of 1987 from Fred and George). Hermione is in bed with a chest infection, however, and is at all times impatient of hovering would-be nursemaids, so it is Ron who delivers the innocent-looking box and stays to help his father assemble the contents when the rest of his family wisely retreat to a safe distance (at the local pub).

It's not always obvious, but Ron and his father have things in common. A taste for masterful women, for example. A need to retreat to a place of their own in moments of stress. A dogged support of underdog Quidditch teams. A tolerance and affection for all things Muggle-ish.

Unexpected patience in the face of adversity.

The contents of the box are daunting, but that determined perseverance kicks in in both men when faced with clear plastic packets of small "transistors" and a "circuit diagram" that resembles the Gordian Knot for complexity. Arthur is filled with delight, as both Hermione and Ron predicted he would be, and while Ron is already wondering how many years and experimental charms this will take, and how it will be powered should they ever succeed in building it, he cannot be unaffected by his father's wild enthusiasm.

They set to work.

Many hours later, the rest of the family return. One by one they peer around the shed door, make faces, and quietly retreat again. Cups of tea begin to appear at regular intervals, accompanied by plates of sandwiches, and periodically Fred or George will pop up to brightly offer assistance and have to be evicted. At one point Ron is sure he hears his mother telling someone that she won't disturb them because _they're getting along so nicely together_.

By the time they are finally finished it has been dark for some time. Much to the surprise of both of them, there are no extra bits and pieces left over, and it looks the way the pictures indicate it should look. Power, too, turns out to be no problem as Arthur has somehow had the shed connected to the local electricity supply and there is a small bank of plug sockets that take pride of place above his work bench. In spite of his tiredness, Arthur is thrilled.

"Let's switch it on, then, and give it a try!" he enthuses.

Ron is abruptly reminded that he doesn't really know how a "theremin" is played. Hermione gave him an extensive lecture on the subject (mostly read out of books) which, in a spirit of self-preservation, he largely tuned out. He does remember that she pronounced it to be the only musical instrument that is played without being touched, a statement which he nearly put his life on the line by disputing, for of course there are many musical instruments that magical folk play without touching them. Muggle instruments require more active human participation, though, so they plug it in and, after some vague prodding and belated study of the discarded instructions, switch it on.

"Now what?" Arthur asks, eyes fixed on the "theremin" and his face pink with excitement.

"I'm not sure," Ron admits, eyeing it warily. A dim memory of Harry talking about "electric shocks" makes him hesitate in touching it now that it's "live".

"It's not playing."

"I think we have to play it."

"Hm. No keys or strings. Perhaps we're supposed to blow into something."

There doesn't appear to be a mouthpiece either though. This does not deter Arthur. He blows on various spots until finally he reaches one of the long, narrow protuberances. The theremin responds to this treatment by letting out a short burst of sound reminiscent of the wail of a damned soul.

When they've both Apparated themselves back into the shed, they approach the theremin more cautiously. Clearly it is more sensitive than it looks. After much hesitation, Ron stretches one careful hand out towards the protuberance that is sticking out of the side of the box. He doesn't have to touch it. As soon as his fingers come within five inches of it, it begins to make an odd wavering sound somewhere between a violin and wind blowing across the top of a bottle.

Ron frowns. "Hermione did say that you don't play it by touching it."

"Amazing! Those Muggles and their ideas, eh, Ron?" Arthur joggles his elbow, thoroughly delighted, and the resultant wobble of Ron's hand produces another series of odd noises.

"Doesn't sound much like music to me," Ron says, puzzled and disappointed.

"Neither does a piano when you don't know the charms to play it," his father replies, undeterred. "Do that again!"

Ron does so, and the theremin produces another, similar set of noises.

"I see," Arthur murmurs, his eyes fixed on the instrument. "And if I do this - " he blows on the upright protuberance and it shrieks again, making Ron jump. "Right, right ... but if I do this - " he cautiously brings his hand close to it, and the moan is less jarring. "Fascinating!"

It's impossible not to be infected with his boundless optimism and Ron is drawn into making more cautious gestures at the theremin which produce an extraordinary range of sounds. After a while, their motions become more fluid and the noises begin to smooth out, until the two of them are consciously synchronising their movements to produce the ethereal sounds. Ron is reminded a little of a CD Hermione plays at home, of whale song. It's not remotely the same, of course, and yet in a strange way it is.

And so they play it. After a while Ron stops thinking of it as noise and starts to understand that it is music after all, just of a different kind. There is rhythm and subtlety to it and, as they grow to understand it a little better, patterns and harmony in the sound.

He is reminded then of Hermione herself. He cannot imagine why. But just as there are curves and swells and dips in her body - and in her moods - there are curving, swelling and dipping hand motions to this music. He is reminded of touching her, of the things that please her, that make her body stretch and sigh beneath him.

Ron feels his face heat up then, and he risks a glance at his father. Arthur's face is rapt, his eyes far away, and he is deeply absorbed in the slow, gentle motions he is making with his hands. Ron decides that he doesn't need to know what his father is thinking.

He turns back to the instrument and the music fills the night.


End file.
